Give Me Pizza, or Give Me Death: Comin' to 'Murica

Last Thursday I landed in the sweet land of wonder that is 'Murica for my older brother's wedding. I have had lots of time to sit and daydream about this particular homecoming. These daydreams sometimes consisted of people dropping to their knees in utter contentment of seeing me again. The rest were about food, namely pizza. So, in a perfect world what would have happened when I first came up that ridiculously long escalator at Hartsfield-Jackson (besides seeing that girl in the towel who seemingly wants to give me a really big hug) was someone opening a box of Mellow Mushroom pizza, feeding me a slice, and saying something along the lines of "Welcome back, Champion." That is in a perfect world. What really happened was more of an anti-climatic, pizza-less experience. Such is life.

I'll be the first to admit that I'm a weird person. I'm almost positive it's a redhead's birthright. I was convinced that after living in Ethiopia for a year now, my weirdness would be exponential. In addition, I thought the American way of life would be a completely foreign concept at this point. What I had come to find, within the first moment of stepping off the airplane, is that it is not any different from when I left it except there more younger people with even nicer cellphones. I guess this feeling of familiarity could be a good and bad thing. For one, after braving the treacherous bumpy roads while dodging the unruly and unattended livestock roaming the streets, I thought I would be at ease with my mother's driving. False. There are nail indentations on the car door that proves it. I thought being able to bathe on a more appropriate and frequent basis would seem like a luxury. Nope. I thought being able to get more than one type of beer would be more exciting. No, because my brother likes to by cheap beer (though thanks for buying it for me, Matt). I thought I would say things like "Are you voluntary to hang out with me?" or "I appreciate your cooperation" or "Your TV is very attractive and interesting" or any other awkward phrases that Peace Corps Volunteers end up repeating in their sleep. On the other hand, I am still opting for the handshake/shoulder bump combo instead of the standard hug. I'm also holding my elbow when shaking someone's hand. These greetings are very unique to Ethiopia, but more or less endearing in an American context.

The weirdest part of this brief trip to the States, is that it is not weird at all. Granted I haven't lived in a bush for the past 15 years. It's only been one. It just all seems a little too easy for me to do be back here. Maybe I adapt well. Maybe I just need to get over myself. The latter is usually what needs to happen. It's only been a year, but at the same time, it's been a year in East Africa. Going back to Ethiopia may be a whole different story. I only hope that it will be just as smooth. In the meantime, I'm going to go ahead and leave my internet pages up, take a daily shower, watch On Demand, and eat pizza for breakfast all because I can. I miss my friends, work, and more simplistic lifestyle in Ethiopia though and I can't wait to be back to bucket baths, latrines, and the same thing for lunch and dinner everyday.

A Birthday—the Ethiopian Way

On July 18, a miraculous thing happened, I made it another year. That makes 22 total years I have survived on this planet with only a few instances where it was questioned whether or not I would actually make it to year 23. So here I am. Past birthdays have included engaging in the normal debauchery mixed with bad decisions. The bar hoppings, party plannings, and whatnots. It has been happening far enough in the past that it was time to do things a bit different…the Ethiopian way.

This blessed day started with me waking up (as most blessed days do). My PCV friend and I made pancakes. No syrup, but we had bananas and honey straight from the hive. Honey that makes your teeth ache. Honey that makes you think the bees have transplanted those hives into the crevices of your molars. I eat it by the spoonful ("A moment on the lips, forever on the hips"). So delicious, so sweet, so worth it. And coffee. Locally bought and home roasted and brewed. You can't get much better than that.

Then I was off to a meeting. Yes, I work on the weekends and holidays (HIV does not take a vacation!). Twenty commercial sex workers (aka CS-dubs) and I are working on a project proposal. It is a woofcho bet (aka a millhouse, but better known as a woofcho bet) that will function as an income-generating activity for them. Woofcho bets are of particular importance in Ethiopia because they are responsible for grinding the spices and beans into powder that we cook to make our food, such as shiro wat and berbare. Great stuff. During the meeting we selected the committee members, the leaders of the group. We then chose a new name for the organization—Yasetoch Andenet ("Women's Unity"). They knew it was my birthday and had planned something special for me. They presented me with a beautiful green scarf, let me cut the habasha dabo (special Ethiopian bread), and had a coffee ceremony. These women, I love them. I would have cried to show my gratitude, but Ethiopians don't cry in public, for anything really. After all, I was trying to stay in cultural character.

Now it was time to get ready for my Ethiopian-style party hosted at my bet ("house"). Habasha dabo—check. Popcorn—check. Soft drinks—check. Candles—check. Fake flowers—check. Grass for the floor—check. Fruit—check. All things necessary for coffee preparation—check. My landlord lent me some items to complete the set-up including some hand-stitched sheets to cover my couch-bed, incense, and rokobot (small dresser that holds the coffee cups and the "station" in which you serve the coffee)—check, check, check. I quickly changed into my habasha kimise (Ethiopian dress) and awaited my guests. And I waited. I thought the fact that a ferenji was serving coffee and letting them into her house was cause for punctuality. Guess not. When they finally arrived, it was time for me to prepare the coffee. I was a little nervous. I didn't exactly know the ratio of coffee-to-water to place in the jabena. Actually, I didn't know anything since I use a coffee press to prepare my daily cup(s) of coffee. I did it and there are pictures to prove it and thus, I will never have to do it again. There is some rhyme and reason that I haven't figured out yet as to the timing of cutting the bread, passing around the popcorn and fruit, and the number of cups of coffee you serve to your guests. Luckily, I had about 6 Ethiopian women watching my every move and trying to commandeer the situation. I held my ground and served luke warm, watered-down coffee, thank you very much. Hmph.

Uh, uh...she's trying to take it away...

Ah, yes. I win.

Some friends actually gave me some gifts, which I honestly didn't expect and then some other friends had to leave before dark which offered a smooth segue so I could kick everyone out of my house (I thought this was going to be the hardest part). It was a calm 2 hours of getting people to eat the 2^nd batch of cookies I made (the 1^st batch had been eaten by yours truly and justified by having one for every other year I had been alive and one to grow on) and making them "play." The latter part was a present itself because whenever I am silent for more than 5 minutes (yeah, yeah, hard to believe) they tell me to "play." So, I had my birthday—the Ethiopian way. And it was quite the opposite of the "wild and crazy" time my dad notably expected. Next year, I'll hopefully be on a beach and back to my old behaviors.